


Hold

by orphan_account



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: Meme of Interest, Holding Hands, Kink Meme, M/M, Rescue, rinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: holding hands! can be platonic or slashy, either way</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon/gifts).



John staggered towards the door. His legs went sideways, one, two paces left and then he lurched forward again, powered himself at the latch and burst through. The door splintered and bounced off of the wall and John heard a bewildered, hopeful "Mr Reese?" The windowless basement was a blind, blank pit of horror and John was at Finch's side, was cutting through the zip ties that bound him to a chair. Finch said again, "Mr Reese?" 

He staggered again, went down on one knee, kneecap a hard crunch against the concrete. "Finch," he said. He was kneeling in front of Finch, scrabbling his bloodied hands at the chair leg where Finch's ankle was tied, and he was thinking finch finch finch and so that's all he said, too, just, "Finch," until Finch put his hand out and touched his head. Finch put his hand on John's head so gently.

And John swallowed back the dust and blood and terror in his throat and said, "I've got you now. Let me–I'm getting you out."

There was no one to stop them. He had finished them all.

They went to the library. John had stolen the car, thrown Finch into the back seat, and driven there before he'd calmed down enough to really think about going anywhere else. Finch had lain silent and slumped in the back seat, his eyes wide and blinking with his glasses gone. John hated that his glasses were gone. The petty indignity of it made him afraid for so much more, so much worse. 

He hauled Finch out the car and wrapped his arms around him, half dragging him, half carrying him up to the old couch that sat hidden between two bookcases. Bear ran to them, came skidding to a halt at the sight of them. They must have looked wrecked. John was covered in brick dust and grime and he could feel the gritty congealing messes of war all over him, in his hair, stinging and clinging to scrapes in his skin.

Finch shook his head and said, "No, dear Lord, my back," and so John pulled all the cushions off of the couch and threw down a sleeping bag on top for good measure while Finch stood with one hand gripping a bookshelf. Finch's other hand just shook; John could see it out the corner of his eye and he hated seeing that, too.

He tugged Finch's sleeve. "You gotta lay down," he told him. Bear whined and ran in a little circle around Finch, until Finch shook himself and said, "What? Yes. Of course. On the floor? Mr Reese, I really think–"

John shook his head. He dropped down onto his knees again. He put his arms up and Finch clasped his hands for support, came down onto the cushions so they were both kneeling, holding hands really, and it was just then that Finch's face woke up, just then as they knelt there together the horror and the pain and the memory flooded into him and John could see it all coming and he pulled Finch down and held him down, held him close, one arm thrown over him and one hand still clasped in Finch's. They lay there on the old battered couch cushions and Finch said to him, "I've got you."


End file.
